“What for?”
“To negotiate with the Egyptians at Kilometer 101.”
“Why me?”
“You’re a major general, and you’re around.”
Pasternak tosses down the brandy and coughs. “Ah. That helps, but I’m still getting into my Hermonit.” He goes out to the helicopter, leaning against the wind. Throwing the air force jacket inside the aircraft, he takes out and puts on a quilted jumpsuit, the kind worn on Mount Hermon by snowbound soldiers. When he returns to the tent Yariv and the others are brushing sand off the maps, to review the disputed cease-fire lines and the proposed route of the UN–Red Cross convoy.
“What do we do when those Egyptians show up?” asks the armor general. “Shake hands? Offer them folding chairs? Do we do the whole thing standing up? Are we cordial? Do we offer them turkey salami?”
The paratrooper, who is eating several slices of it on bread, begins to gobble. The armor man chimes in. “Look, we’re all tired,” expostulates Yariv, “and put out by waiting here so long in the wind and the cold. But we’re making history, and let’s be equal to the occasion.”
The sense of making history does steal over Pasternak when he hears the vehicles approach and stop. The Jewish generals line themselves up on one side of the table, and in walk four erect unsmiling Egyptians in full faultless uniform with medals; a decided contrast to the Jews, three of them bareheaded in bulky air force jackets, the plump Pasternak in his jumpsuit and fur hood.
“Major General Aharon Yariv?” inquires a stiffly straight Egyptian in a deep voice.
“I am Yariv.”
“I am Gamasy, my delegation’s leader.” The Egyptian salutes. This is the Chief of Staff of the Egyptian army.
Yariv returns the salute, and a round of salutes and introductions follows. There are no handshakes. An orderly brings chairs, the eight major generals sit down facing each other, and the parley begins as the wind whistles and the sand blows. The Egyptians unfold maps to compare with those on the table. The talk is in English. At first it is about matching place names, but soon the Egyptian leader switches to the convoy route. That has to be settled at once.
“A concurrent topic,” Yariv replies, “has to be the immediate exchange of prisoners.”
“On that I have no instructions.”
“I do. The convoy passes when arrangements for the prisoner exchange are confirmed. Not before.”
“But that is a political, not a military, matter.”
The officer facing Pasternak is shaking all over. Pasternak inquires in an undertone, “Are you ill, General?”
“General, I was sent out here without warning, except to put on full dress uniform. As the Americans say, I am freezing my balls off.”
Pasternak jumps up, leaves the tent, and comes back with an air force jacket. “Wear this, General.”
The Egyptian glances at his leader, who nods. He pulls it on and zips it up. Yariv says to General Gamasy, “Perhaps that’s a good idea for all of you, General.”
“We accept,” says the leader with a sudden charming smile. When the talk resumes, there are seven officers at the table in Israeli Air Force jackets, and one in a Hermonit. The parley lasts about an hour. As the Egyptians are folding up their maps, Yariv says, “Everything we have discussed, General, is conditional on satisfactory arrangements for a prisoner exchange.”
“I will bring an answer to our next meeting.”
The paratrooper general speaks up. “Sir, a nephew of mine was captured in the Quay stronghold of the Bar-Lev Line. Can you get word about him? I’d be very grateful.”
“I can try. Please write down his name and rank.”
Pasternak says to Gamasy, “General, I’d be grateful if you could bring word about another prisoner, a Phantom pilot.” He scrawls Captain Dov Luria on a chit.
The general opposite him, to whom he first offered a jacket, holds out his hand. “Let me see to that. A relative of yours?”
“Son of a close friend.”
The Egyptian tucks away the chit and unzips the air force jacket. “Many thanks for this.”
“Gentlemen,” Yariv says, “it will be a cold ride back to Cairo. Accept the jackets with Israel’s good will.”
The Egyptian leader removes his jacket and folds it on the table. The others follow suit, salute, and walk out, leaving four jackets lying across the cease-fire maps.
Arik Sharon and Don Kishote are lunching in the shade of the lush green mango orchard where Sharon’s command APCs have halted near Ismailia, amid an array of field tents, and scores of tanks undergoing noisy maintenance. On the high Egyptian ramparts off to the east, large Israeli flags wave in the strong wind.
“Politics, Kishote. Politics. In the middle of a war, with boys dying, politics to the end.” Sharon appears much rested, if no less angry and bellicose; unshaven and shaggy-haired, but with bright eyes and good color. The bandage is gone, leaving a red scar on his temple. He slices a thick piece of yellow cheese and lays it on fresh bread. “But that gang has not heard the last of Arik Sharon.”
“Arik, you sent for me urgently?”
“Absolutely.” Sharon’s anger fades into a cold professional tone. “You know about the meeting at Kilometer 101? A huge convoy — a ‘humanitarian’ convoy” — the sarcasm is as thick as the cheese slice — “is en route from Cairo to Suez.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“It’s true. Hundreds of trucks, enough to keep the Third Army alive for weeks. I want you to be there when the stuff arrives at the Canal, and keep a sharp eye on the search and transfer procedures.”
“At your orders, sir.”
“Medical supplies!” Sharon’s eyes slyly narrow at Yossi. “Remember when the British were searching our convoys to Jerusalem?”
“I came from Cyprus after the British left, Arik, when the war was on.”
“So? Well, I tell you, our nurses were carrying grenades in their brassieres and by your life, in their crotches! We found plenty of ways to smuggle in arms and ammunition. Now, you report to me by telephone, and if there’s the slightest funny business, I’ll raise a howl with Dayan that you’ll hear down there in Suez.”
“Arik, it’s a UN and Red Cross convoy. I don’t know the Security Council’s stand on searching brassieres.” Sharon grunts a laugh. Kishote adds, “Not to mention more restricted areas.”
“I leave it to you. Dayan was here yesterday, Kishote, and commended your performance at Deversoir. I’m sure you’d rather have been up front.” With a savage grin he adds, “Next war.”
“I hope there won’t be one, sir.”
“Well, if we throw out that Labor gang and get some real leadership, maybe not. Our enemies will remember this beating for a good while, anyway.”
Driving along and behind the front lines, checking the supply depots as he wends south to Suez, Yossi sees evidence everywhere that Zahal is near the end of its rope. The tragic backwash of the crossing — the streams of vehicles heading cast with dead and wounded, the disabled tanks, wrecked APCs, and self-propelled guns being towed back for salvage — all that gives him a dark view of the victory. So have the final orders from Tel Aviv to the advancing brigades: “Charge ahead carefully … we don’t want any Stalingrads …” Here in Africa he sees no exulting victors, but bewhiskered hollow-eyed youngsters, sunk in deep fatigue and on a nervous edge. If the war starts again tomorrow — and the Arabs will certainly go if they see any hope of gain — these boys will certainly get back into the tanks, the APCs, the command cars, and fight again. With the air support they now can count on, they might well cut off more Egyptian forces. But to what end? Cairo declared an open city, and occupied by Jewish soldiers? Then what?
With such dismal musings, Don Kishote stands beside Natke Nir in the break of the rampart where the convoy vehicles are unloading. The line of Red Cross trucks flying blue UN banners and gaudy Egyptian flags stretches out of sight along the narrow road to Suez City, which still smokes on the horizon from Bren Adan’s assault.
“Look at them, Kishote,” growls the gnarled little brigade commander, limping forward for a better look at the Israeli pontoon boats being loaded up by Egyptian soldiers. Several boats are already on the other side, where Third Army soldiers have lined up in human chains, singing and cheering as they pass crates and barrels. “Look at them! For three weeks they’ve been killing my men, and now we’re saving their lives. Yesterday we sent over five tons of our own medical supplies, and eight tank trucks of water. For what? Why? Because of Kissinger. That Jew Kissinger, who stopped us from crushing them once for all. I swear, Yossi, if Kissinger were standing where you are —” Natke draws his pistol, brandishes it, and grinds his teeth. “By my life, I’d shoot him through the heart. God damn Kissinger.”
“Natke, you’re wrong,” says Don Kishote. “Thank God for Kissinger.”
Natke Nir stares at him in stupefaction, as the Egyptians sing and cheer on both sides of the Canal.
32
Nakhama and Emily
Emily Halliday has not been in the King David Hotel in seventeen years, and like an old love song the unchanged lobby wakes poignant memories. She remembers her thunderstruck surprise when Zev Barak came through that revolving door, she remembers the small shabby room where they listened to Ben Gurion’s speech, she remembers that first kiss which ran through her body like a live-wire shock and made her cry with joy. And here comes General Barak through that same revolving door, white-haired but otherwise hardly changed. “Welcome, delighted to see you both.” Same deep warm voice and slight charming accent. “My car is just outside.”
General Halliday insists on putting her beside Barak in the front seat, asking as he gets in the back, “How’s your navy son, Barak?”
“Still at sea with his flotilla, thank you.”
“We’ve had good reports about your navy’s role in the war.”
“It did well. You and I will visit the base in Haifa, and the CNO will brief you on the sea campaign. The battle off Latakia has interesting aspects. Yes, you might say our navy found itself in this war. And you might say we almost lost ourselves.”
“It came out all right,” says the American.
“Not at that cost. But the bill was presented, so we paid it.”
Sitting beside Barak, hearing his voice, her senses stirring with the King David remembrances, Emily feels nineteen years old and vibrantly alive, and at the same time all too weighted with the years.
Nakhama opens the door in a plain pink housedress and a white apron. “Hello, welcome.”
In all that thick black hair Emily sees not one silver thread. She has hundreds. Thousands. “Nakhama, this is my husband, Bradford Halliday.”
Zev’s wife gives Halliday a warm smile and a firm handshake. “Well, Zev’s told me a lot about you, General.”
“How are your girls?” Emily asks when they are at table, and Nakhama is serving a spicy-smelling soup. “They must be young women, both of them.”
“Ruti is still in high school. Galia’s engaged, but her fiance’s missing in action, Phantom pilot.”
Halliday perks up. “F-4? He must be good. Was he hit by a missile? Was he seen to eject?”
Barak tells him what he knows of Dov’s disappearance. Halliday soberly nods. “I was in the F-4 for years. It’s a tough workhorse, it can take a lot and keep going. In Vietnam we rescued many a Phantom pilot who crash-landed and was missing for a while. Tell your daughter not to lose hope.”
“I will,” says Nakhama. “Coming from you, it’ll mean a lot.”
The men talk about the war, and Barak almost ignores Emily — which is all right with her — describing how the navy’s electronic countermeasures outclassed the opposing Soviet equipment. “We take some pride in that,” he says. “Product of Israel, all of it.”
“You should. We were disappointed that the stuff we sent to shield your Phantoms didn’t do the job.”
“So were we. It took combat testing to find that out, and some losses.”
Halliday looks rueful. “We sent the best we had.”
“I’m sure of that. We’re still analyzing the data from two aircraft that went down, and one that got through. It’s voluminous.”
“We’ll be grateful to see that material.”
“Of course you’ll sec it all.”
The telephone rings. Barak talks Hebrew in low tones, then inquires, holding the phone, “General, are you very tired?”
“Not in the least. Why?”
“General Elazar can meet you this evening, after all. Change of plans. He’s here in Jerusalem, and he’s free right now. Otherwise day after tomorrow as scheduled, in Tel Aviv.”
“Let’s go now, by all means.”
“Very good. The army is sending a car, and the driver will take Emily back to the hotel.”
Nakhama interjects, “Why? I can do that.”
“Or I’ll walk. It’s not far,” says Emily. Here is a chance to have it out with Zev’s wife.
When the men have left, Nakhama asks, pouring tea, “So, how long will you be in Israel?”
“Not as long as Bud. I’ll be off to Paris day after tomorrow.”
“Paris. I’ve yet to see Paris,” Nakhama sighs. “Can you imagine? We’ve been to Athens, Rome, even London. He’s been to Paris, but I haven’t.”
Remembering well her Paris times with Wolf, Emily holds her tongue and drinks tea. Nakhama rambles on. “Well, I can’t blame you for cutting short your visit here. Israel’s a sad place these days. We’re still very shaken up by the war. Zev was surprised to hear that General Halliday was bringing you.”
“I asked to come, and Bud was nice about it. Sort of a going-away present.”
“Going away? I don’t understand.”
“We’re getting divorced.”
Nakhama opens great eyes. “You’re serious?”
“Oh, quite. I’ll be looking for a flat in Paris. Let me help you clear those dishes.”
“Sit where you are, it won’t take a minute and we’ll go.”
“If you’re like me,” Emily says, getting up and collecting plates, “you can’t walk out the door leaving dishes unwashed.”
Nakhama laughs. “Well, you’re very nice. Don’t stain that lovely suit.”
In the breakfast alcove near the sink, Emily sits down, saying, “I don’t find Israel a sad place. Lively traffic, people going about their business. Things seem back to normal here, pretty much.”
Nakhama shakes her head as she rinses dishes. “Not so. Not at the borders, and certainly not in our spirits. Listen, you amaze me. Why the divorce? Or would you rather not talk about it?”
“I don’t mind. It’s simple enough. Bud found himself a great love, which I never was, truth to tell. He’s been open and honest about it, and he’s made very decent arrangements for me and the children. I don’t complain.”
“A great love, you say?”
“Secretary of a friend. A beautiful Norwegian. At least he finds her beautiful.”
“You don’t?”
“Far from it. But you know how that is.”
Nakhama dries her hands. “I suppose I’m lucky.”
“How so?”
“Well, Zev found a great love, but he stuck to me.”
The two women’s eyes meet. “Good God, Nakhama,” Emily chokes out.
Nakhama shrugs. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Christ almighty! Are all Israeli women like you? You’re the damnedest woman I’ve ever known.” Unable to help it, Emily wipes her eyes.
“Why do you say that? Look, how about a glass of wine before we go?”
“If you have whiskey, better yet.”
Nakhama goes out and comes back with a dusty brown bottle. “Canadian Club, is that whiskey?”
“That’s fine, thanks.”
“We have no soda. Will it go with Pepsi-Cola?”
“Nakhama, just pour it in a glass, will you? No ice, no water, nothing.”
“Right. I’ll keep you company with a little
wine.”
Emily gulps the whiskey. “Ahhh. Best medicine for jet lag. Or for practically anything.”
“Have more.”
“Yes, please.”
“Let me tell you something,” says Nakhama, pouring red wine for herself. “I’ve been jealous of you for years. Any Israeli woman would be. Sometimes so jealous it made me nasty and sick, not a good wife. But lately I had a real deep change of heart, when Zev went off to Washington to try to get an airlift. The war was so terrible, and my son was fighting out at sea, and Dov — that’s Galia’s intended — was flying against those missiles, and there went my husband on such a vital mission, and I thought, so what if he sees Emily Halliday? So what? For what, all these years, have I been eating out my kishkas? Kishkas are intestines.”
“I gather that.” Emily holds out her glass.
Nakhama fills it again. “The truth is, we married too young. I was a very, very pretty girl, Emily, but I never was a book reader, I’m not an intellectual, not really a match for Zev —”
“Balderdash, he adores you.”
“I said I’m lucky, and I know it. But your letters mean the world to him, and so do you, and I can understand why. But it hasn’t been easy for me, and —”
“He’s stopped writing.”
Nakhama blinks. “I didn’t know that.”
“He thinks it annoys or upsets you.”
“Should I talk to him about that? I’ll be glad to. What’s wrong with letters?”
Emily is speechless. All the way to Israel she has been marshalling arguments to convince the wife that the correspondence is innocuous. The wind is knocked out of her.
“You know,” Nakhama goes on, pouring still more Canadian Club for her, “we’ve had this old bottle here for years. I forget who gave it to us. I’ve never tasted the stuff. Is it good?”
“It’s strong.”
“I’ll try it.” She puts some into her empty wineglass. “Oo-ah. Burns going down, doesn’t it? Where was I? Well, what’s more, Zev is an Ashkenazi, you see, and I’m a Sephardi. Both my parents were Moroccan immigrants. He’s from an old Zionist family, originally Polish, later Viennese. We’re the black Jews, the ‘second Israel,’ they’re the whites, and believe me, his mother let me know it. To her dying day she didn’t let me forget it, and —”